RIVERSIDE  At Tio’s Tacos, you can eat a carnitas burrito, quaff a Corona and have your mind blown wandering around a folk art fantasyland cooked up from the taqueria’s recycled trash.

Beer bottles, bones from pork shoulders, cans from jalapeños, shells from shucked oysters, lids from tomato sauce and more live on in eye-popping creations such as a 40-foot-tall hand-standing clown, a gigantic mermaid and a towering twin-headed chef.

It’s all the over-the-top handiwork of Tio’s owner Martin Sanchez, who for nearly two decades has collected every speck of litter from his taco shop and adjacent home — plastic milk jugs, broken hangers, his three daughters’ unwanted Barbie dolls.

With only a third-grade education, the Mexican immigrant has turned trash into trippy treasure, crafting chicken-wire-wrapped figures, whimsy walkways, funky fountains and his own house’s remarkable roof (it’s overrun by a dozen fake humans clad in his family’s hand-me-downs and doing death-defying stunts like riding an old bike off the edge). Using thousands of soda and beer bottles, Sanchez also built both a Mayan-inspired pyramid and an elaborate chapel that was consecrated by the Catholic Church — real weddings and baptisms are held in this salvage sanctuary whose windows are trimmed in bottle caps.

Yep, crazy. Especially since this outrageous outdoor oasis covers nearly a city block.

What makes this Disney World of waste all the more wonderful is Sanchez himself. A humble, religious man, Sanchez, 46, says he grew up poor in Sahuayo, a town in Michoacan, Mexico, and at 4 years old went to work cleaning shoes and cars. He was smuggled across the border by a coyote in 1984 and sold boxes of oranges on freeway off-ramps before he and his wife, Concepcion, bought a hot-dog cart to hawk tacos.

“When I came to the United States, I see people throwing away anything. I think, ‘Why? People don’t have these things back in my village,’” Sanchez recalled.

So he went green before it was trendy, repurposing everything from empty tubs of restaurant degreaser to a dead microwave. “I’m always thinking, ‘What can I do with it?’ I don’t throw away nothing.”

His eldest daughter, Stephanie, 22, says at first his obsession drove her nuts. “He wouldn’t even let us throw out tubes of toothpaste or shampoo bottles,” remembered Stephanie, who works at Tio’s along with 17-year-old sister, Kimberly.

Sanchez, who smiles easily, calls it “an honor” to be able to entertain visitors with his vision. “This is my dream come true. And it is to show other people to follow their dream.”

Besides restaurant rubbish, the childhoods of the Sanchez kids are publicly enshrined. The small bicycle ridden by the older siblings and passed down to Maiten, now 8, is encased in cement on a pathway, as are the marbles their dad played with as a boy in Mexico (his other toys were cars made from milk cartons and sticks). The girls’ Barbie dolls — naked and looking maniacal — plaster a 10-foot-tall “woman” wearing concrete cowboy boots.

“Every single piece has a history — these are all the things we used and played with,” Stephanie said. “This place is more sentimental to us.”

Once you step foot on this jaw-dropping junkyard, you won’t know where to turn. Huge E.T.-like creatures loom atop a storage building, their “faces” actual floodlights that weird-out this world even more after dark. A figure eerily capped by a long-haired mannequin’s head also sports “breasts” spraying water into a castoff sink.

Elsewhere, as you enjoy a $2.25 a la carte beef enchilada with authentic mole sauce and an agua fresca, gaze down at the “walk of fame” embellished with scraps of marble and granite kitchen counters (Sanchez scrounges these from a friend in the construction business) and spelling out the names of history-changers, such as Abraham Lincoln, Mother Teresa and Cesar Chavez. “They don’t have a star in Hollywood,” explained Sanchez, who opted to give his heroes due respect.

In the back lot one recent day — surrounding a concrete monk with outstretched arms — bags of garbage lay piled up from the night before. Empty cans of nacho cheese sauce. Smashed cans of Bud Light. Torn sacks labeled “Frijoles.” Jugs from bleach.

“This is all part of my family, part of my life,” Sanchez happily said. Soon, he’d sort through the mess for his next junk-heap masterpiece.